


El, My El

by Mythril_Heart



Series: The Couslands [1]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games)
Genre: Bromance, Comedy, F/M, Hate to Love, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Romance, Slapstick, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Survivor Guilt, War
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-05
Updated: 2018-05-17
Packaged: 2018-09-06 12:26:19
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 16,461
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8750905
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mythril_Heart/pseuds/Mythril_Heart
Summary: Bryce Cousland would like to remind all women present that he is an extremely BRAVE and STRONG man who once took on THREE Great Bears WITHOUT any armor. He would also like to add that he isn’t a fucking idiot, to go and provoke a man built like a Dwarven golem, and so he cannot possibly be accused of cowardice. He would also like to say that his quaking legs were not due to fear, but due to genuine excitement to be before such a fine specimen of a soldier. Bryce would also like to remind Leonas that he knows his dirty secret, so Leonas better shut his fucking mouth before Bryce decides to open his.





	1. Ash and Death

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which Bryce watches his commander die.

**8:96 Blessed  
_White River_ **

The call to arms sounded. Bann Angus Eremon stood at the forefront of his Ferelden army, 1000 strong.

Their horses pawed at the earth, dust rising up from their hooves.

Bryce Cousland sat astride on his mount, Leonas Bryland and Rendon Howe flanked him.

“There is no greater honor than fighting at your side.” Bryce declared softly, his voice reaching only the two he rode between.

“No greater honor.” Leonas and Howe murmured in agreement. Leonas pulled down the visor of his helmet. Howe tightened his hold on the handle of his sword.

Eremon’s battle cry rose from the front, and the Ferelden army unsheathed their weapons. The cold ring of steel reverberated in the air. In three heartbeats, they charged.

 

The Orlesian army crashed into theirs with a shocking force. Chaos reigned, with soldiers fighting for survival rather than for a cause. It did not matter who you sunk your blade into, so long as it wasn’t you. Amidst the chaos, arrows fell from the sky, raining death upon both armies.

The arrows sliced through the air, lodging themselves deep into the earth, or deep into a soldier’s flesh. In the chaos, Bryce lost Leonas and Rendon. He was fighting for survival now, his heavy blade cutting through armor. He dodged, parried, and impaled. He kicked dirt into the eyes of his opponents and shoved them backwards. He swung his sword, beheading and amputating. His grip on his sword was slick with blood; not his own, never his own, but always blood.

 

The air tasted like ash. Like ash and death, ash and death...

 

The smell of burnt flesh, the roaring of angry soldiers, the cries of the wounded. The groans of those who survived even while their intestines laid out beside them in a pool of muddy blood.

This was the song of the bloodthirsty, the song of the wounded, the song of the battlefield. It was the song that sang forever in his head until his mind was numb with loss and his heart heavy with the ashes of the dead. Ash and death, ash and death.

 

In the harmony of arrows, Bryce lost all sense of time and purpose. He fought through mindlessly, avoiding the Ferelden gold and brutalizing all that wore heavily plumed helmets and red tunics.

The way before Bryce cleared, and he spotted for the first time the iconic figure of Bann Angus Eremon. Eremon was an impatient but worthy commander; the Ferelden rebels followed him with pride. But at this moment, Eremon was reaching for the horn strapped to his side. He was about to sound the call for retreat.

 

Something in Bryce cried out angrily, clawing at him to disregard the hope of retreat. But the horn’s mournful note sounded clear throughout the battlefield, and Bryce, always loyal, followed it.

Bryce fought his way to Eremon, providing cover for his commander. The two pushed away from  the battlefield, until an arrow sliced an inch past Bryce’s ear and lodged itself in Eremon’s throat. Bryce saw his commander fall to his knees, gasping for air. Another arrow landed with finality deep into Angus’ back. Bryce breathed in another lungful of ash. As he reached the corpse of his commander,  he saw the pale dead eyes and bloody spittle on Eremon’s face. Bryce turned away.

 

A shout rang out, and even with his heartbeat hammering at his head. Bryce recognized Leonas’ voice. He turned, and immediately he spotted Rendon being pinned by a brutish Orlesian chevalier. With a roar of outrage, Bryce rushed the chevalier. He fought the imposing soldier, dodging thrusts and swinging his sword with ruthless persistence. Leonas used the time that Bryce bought to drag Rendon away to safety. The soldiers of the north were retreating.

Bryce had soon depleted his energy. A bone deep wariness began to weigh down his blows, and for that mistake he was rewarded with a slice on his shoulder by the chevalier’s sword. Bryce had cried out, with his sword arm useless, he accepted the death that was his due. It was Leonas who came to his rescue; he had salvaged a bow and arrow from the battlefield and let loose an arrow that found the chevalier’s left eye. Bryce clutched at his sword-arm, and with eyes full of loathing, he beheaded the chevalier with his other.

 

Together, Bryce and Leonas carried Rendon to safety.

They were three of the 50 Ferelden soldiers to survive the Battle of White River.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I will try to be as historically accurate as possible -- let me know if anything is off. This is a series to explore the lives of the Couslands, before and after their betrayal. This particular story centers around Bryce Cousland, the father of the Hero of Ferelden.
> 
> The Battle of White River was devastating for the Ferelden rebellion. Death and trauma are no strangers to war veterans, and Bryce will be feeling the after-effects of the massacre at the valley throughout his life. Bryce and Rendon, both survivors of White River, live with PTSD. How they come to terms with their experiences, and who stands beside them, will have drastic consequences on who they later become. Regardless of their fates, both friends have lived hard, unforgiving lives. 
> 
> I chose 8:96 as the year of the Battle of White River (even though there’s no specific date) because Queen Moira was betrayed and killed that year. The Book of Thedas (vol. 2) then states that Angus got impatient and decided to lead the army of the north to the valley of White River in order to prevent Orlesian forces from breaking through into the Hinterlands. 
> 
> 9:2 Dragon marks the beginning of Maric’s reign, but his official coronation will be later on. I couldn’t find a specific date for his official coronation. But since the coronation is critical for our Couslands’ happiness (what with Bryce proposing to Eleanor-- spoilers!), I will tentatively mark it 8 months after Meghren’s defeat.
> 
> I really want to hear your comments and thoughts!


	2. Dearest Mistress

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which Bryce does his best to pull pigtails.

6 years later...

**9:2 Dragon  
_Morrin’s Overlook_**

A fortnight ago, the young King Maric Theirin defeated Meghren Dufayel in Denerim’s Fort Drakon. Fereldens rejoiced. But the threat of Orlesian retaliation loomed, and the Ferelden freedom fighters agreed to defend their coasts on the Waking Sea. The armies congregated at the Storm Coast to strategize their defense.

Bryce Cousland and Leonas Bryland were no longer infantrymen but commanders of their own. Rendon Howe was now the Arl of Amaranthine, left to care for his arling while his friends fought for the defense of their home.

 

The Storm Coast was spotted with large army tents. The ever falling raindrops battered the tight cloth of the tents, the thick _plunks_ creating a symphony of their own.

"Shite weather," Leonas commented, glancing up at the grey clouds before a fat raindrop landed in his eye, "Andraste's --"

"Really makes you wonder why they named it the _Storm_ Coast, doesn't it?" Bryce asked wryly.

"Shut it," Leonas grumbled. The two made their way towards the Overlook, where the army and navy captains decided to meet. It was a terribly inconvenient place to meet, Bryce thought, what with the way the jagged rocks pinched any bottom tired enough to sit on them. Bryce wondered why in the name of Andraste's holy knickers were they meeting in such a dismal place. The rain made absolutely _terrible_ mood music and it was hard to want to crack Orlesian skulls when even your nethers were getting sticky with rain.

 

"There he is," Leonas said, pointing to a behemoth of a man standing at the very peak of the Overlook.

"Ah, the Storm Giant." Bryce noted, "You think he wanted to meet on the Overlook just so he could seem all the bigger when us normal folk start climbing?"

"Wouldn't put it past him, the man's a terror." Leonas commented, "And a terrific raider. Did you hear of the time he --"

"Plundered Orlais and hid the stolen goods in a ramshackle chantry in Jader?" Bryce finished for him.

"Or the time when he got a lifelong ban from the Gnawed Noble Tavern --"

"Leonas," Bryce said with an arched brow, " _we_ have lifelong bans from the Gnawed Noble Tavern. The barman hands them out like pastries on the King's Birthday." Leonas grunted in acknowledgement.[1] "Ah, but I can't deny that the Giant's a true inspiration." Bryce said, admiration in his eyes, "Though I wish he'd choose a more convenient rendezvous point."

"And now you sound like the Orlesians," Leonas said with disgust, "With their pinched noses and rolling Rs."

"Don't you worry, I'm still Ferelden at heart. No pinched nose would love the smell of wet dog as much as I do." Bryce said, with a wink.

 

When at last the two had made it up the rocks (slipping more than once), they came upon an impressive sight of fifty or more captains and high ranking officials discussing -- nay, that would be too tame of a description. "Violently debating" would be more accurate.

Disregarding the ruckus, Bryce walked up to the Storm Giant, despite Leonas' fervent pleas to "hold back, and for just fucking once listen to -- oh for Andraste's sake!"

 

Bann Fearchar Mac Eanraig of the Storm Coast was as dramatic as his name. Dubbed the Storm Giant, he was a fearsome raider who had made a name for himself by plundering Orlesian coasts numerous times. He was a fierce commander, with a fearsome look in his eyes, wearing fearsome armor made of animals that must have been fearsome when they were still lucky enough not to be a jerkin. He also was equipped with a freakish beard, as is customary to all Ferelden sailors. Fearchar turned away from the captains he had been addressing to give Bryce and Leonas an unimpressed once over. Bryce couldn’t be sure, but he thought he saw the shadows of a smirk beneath the man’s... Unique facial hair.

“Ah, so Maric sends me two gently-bred roses to do a soldier’s work,” Bann Fearchar, “Yer ‘heroic actions’ at White River may have won ya the King’s approval, but it will buy ya n’thing but spit and piss in my fleet, understand?” He shouted the last word. Leonas nodded; Andraste’s arse, he would have nodded even if he _didn’t_ understand. The man was positively terrifying. Bryce, however, noticed that Fearchar had recognized them in all their muddy grandeur, and therefore must know how truly exceptional the two were. Not to boast, of course.  
  
“Roses have thorns,” Bryce said, a gleam of humour in his eyes, “Many a men have been felled by a beautiful rose, wouldn’t you agree?” Bann Fearchar groaned.[2]

“We have a romantic one here!” the Giant agonized loudly.

“What a sad life your wife must have, commander.” Bryce said with a laugh. Almost immediately, Bann Fearchar’s countenance softened.

“My wife was no rose, but Andraste’s tits she could slay any Orlesian scum, and me too if she _really_ got going." Fearchar didn't seem the least bit insulted that Bryce would bring up his wife. Meanwhile, Leonas was internally screaming at Bryce to please, _please_ shut the _fuck_ up you _imbecile_.

 

A quarter hour later, Leonas was charged with defending the fleet by land (much to his relief); any soldier who couldn’t keep their lunch joined him.[3]

Bryce, who had just barely managed to keep his biscuits and tea inside him while talking to Fearchar, was about to faint when the Giant assigned him to a ship. Oh, sweet merciful Andraste. He really went and did it now.

" _The Mistral_ will have ye," Fearchar said amicably, placing an altogether too large hand on Bryce's very small shoulder.

"Sorry, what?" Bryce asked, frankly the rain was just being rude right now, drowning out the loudest man present though Bryce was standing right next to him, "The Mistress?" Fearchar laughed until there were tears in his eyes.

"Ah, good man, that's it, you're right. The Mistress it is." Fearchar said between bouts of laughter, "Ah, the worthy Lady's Captain is here somewhere..." Fearchar digressed and began talking to Bryce about much more serious matters, and in time the two were discussing battle tactics and ship engineering.

 

Fearchar approved of Bryce, in a way a God might approve of a lowly elven slave. He saw intelligence in the boy's eyes -- for surely even at 26 Bryce Cousland was only an overgrown boy. But more than that, Bann Fearchar Mac Eanraig saw loyalty. A quality whose worth Fearchar knew well.

Bryce, for his part, had no inkling of what Fearchar's thoughts of him were. What he did know, however, is that in the span of thirty minutes, Fearchar had become the man that Bryce respected and admired the most.[4] Hours passed, and Fearchar finally dismissed Bryce from his side.

"Now go on and find my-- er, the captain of the... Mistress." The Storm Giant waved him off. And so Bryce went in search of "my-- er, the captain of the... Mistress."

 

Bryce spent a whole of fifteen minutes weaving between angry captains and annoyed soldiers until he admitted to himself that he had no idea what to look for or where to look for it. He has asked bloody everyone about The Mistress, and all he got were blank looks and sometimes an outright cut! The nerve...

Emotionally exhausted, Bryce found a wench that he hoped would temper his thirst.[5] He could really, really use a drink right now. She was on her knees, with a rag in her hand, and Bryce couldn't figure out what she hoped to accomplish by mopping the soggy earth, but perhaps she was not entirely _there_ in the head and a rag was a suitable analogy for her life.

"Hey sweet lass, fetch me a mug of ale, will you?" Bryce said, his voice smooth as velvet. The wench did not look up, and instead seemed preoccupied with scrubbing away the dirt from, well, the dirt. Bryce squatted so that he could be level with her. Unconsciously, he reached out a hand, his thumb and forefinger gently taking hold of her chin and lifting her head so that her eyes met his.

 

Ocean waves and cloudless blue skies crashed into Bryce. They shook him, wave after wave. He was sinking into a liquid oblivion and his heart sang, begging for it.

 

The wench slapped away his hand, glaring daggers at him.

"Hands to yourself, soldier." She said warningly, and resumed her tiresome task of mopping dirt.

She had golden hair and, incongruously, dark lashes. She had roses for cheeks and cherries for lips. Bryce was captivated, breathless, and terribly stupid.

"Maker, what use are my hands if they can't be on _you_ ," Bryce whispered, "I don't even mind that you've got dirt beneath your fingernails, lass, and no need for the ale either. On your knees like this is enough for--" Bryce, so taken by her eyes, did not see her palm come and shove his shoulder - powerfully. Already squatting, he was knocked off balance and landed on his ass like a fool. Heads turned to watch his humiliation.

She pounced on him like a wildcat, and in an instant his head had been banged on the wet ground enough times that Bryce's battle instincts took over. He grabbed the bitch by the scruff of her neck and shoved her away, and realizing that he was holding her down like a brute, his grip slackened.[6] She came at him again, and this time, though unprepared, Bryce was able to dodge her charge and get to his feet. He put his hands up as a show of surrender. She did not accept. She took a step forward.

Bryce never thought he'd be fighting his future wife in front of onlookers - including his future father-in-law - at the edge of a terribly inconveniently placed cliff, and yet here he was.

 

He made another hasty step backward.

 

"Now, I do believe this is what some would call a slight overreaction," Bryce said, palms still facing her in a sign of submission.

"And I do believe this is what my father would consider suitable recourse," the wench said, which confused Bryce all the more. Who in the name of Andraste's lopsided tit was her father, and why should it matter when he was positively dangling off jagged rocks? He turned to asses the rocks in question. _Yeah, definitely jagged,_ he thought.

Bryce wondered how he'd explain this sequence of events to his father, who, despite his currently ailed state, would definitely find out, find him, and find the largest branch to beat him with. Oh, Maker, he was going to _die_ when his father got a hold of him.

The soldiers and captains atop Morrin's Overlook, who were all especially thrilled by this unexpected entertainment, cheered for the -- the seawolf?[7]

"Well, that's rather insulting to the lady!" Bryce bristled, "A wolf! Obnoxious, aren't they, love?" Bryce asked, his voice turning coaxingly sweet. The wench looked at him as though he was idiot. Which, of course was entirely possible given Bryce's current predicament. She unsheathed a dagger strapped to her thigh, something that Bryce had of course unconsciously noted (he was a soldier, not a stableboy), but had completely forgotten about while he drowned in the blue of her eyes. She pointed the abominable thing at him. With a blade at his neck, Bryce backed away further towards the edge, his head tilted upward to avoid the point of the dagger. It nicked him.

"Cool off, soldier." Before Bryce knew what had happened, she had kicked him powerfully in the chest, sending him comically flying off the edge of the Overlook and into the violent waters below.

 

 _Fuck_.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [1] In DA:O, you can actually meet Leonas at the Gnawed Noble Tavern when looking for support for the Landsmeet. I wager that Leonas, through stunning good looks, cunning whiles, and a generous bribe, managed to get his lifelong ban removed. Not too sure about Bryce, though. He would much prefer to sneak in, just for the thrill of it.
> 
> [2] Bryce & Eleanor will later name their second child, their daughter, Rosalind (Rose) Cousland. She will be known as the Highever Bloom, and will have a legacy separate from her parentage. 
> 
> [3] Soldiers who were sea-sick would serve at the coasts and protect the ships from land, likely protecting food stores and fighting off enemy scouts. This is definitely not the last we see of Leonas.
> 
> [4] Bryce Cousland is an honorable, valiant soldier. While he would admire his father (out of loyalty and love), and admire King Maric (out of duty, loyalty, and perhaps even love), he admires Bann Fearchar for his command, his knowledge, his very air. I cannot imagine that Bryce would dislike his future father-in-law, and I can only see Bryce appreciating true valor and loyalty, which, in his eyes, are embodied in Bann Fearchar. The appreciation is mutual, and a begrudging Fearchar would one day come to admit it. 
> 
> [5] Not that type of thirst, ya sickos. ;)
> 
> [6] Bryce's actions are largely reactionary, caused by the harsh conditioning of the battlefield. Bryce is defending himself; he has no intention, nor will he have any intention, to brutalize Eleanor.
> 
> [7] The Soldier and the Sea Wolf is an actual DA shanty that talks about Eleanor & Bryce’s first meeting. Tip: read to the tune of "Leave her Johnny" (AC4 sea shanty):
> 
> The lion’s ships were Denerim bound  
> Oh, drop him, Lady, drop him!  
> Let the true king’s call for aid resound  
> Just drop him, Lady, drop him!  
> A soldier lad from the army came  
> Oh, drop him, Lady, drop him!  
> Leading thirty souls in Maric’s name.  
> Just drop him, Lady, drop him!
> 
> Turn him loose and let him go  
> Down to the rocks and the waves below  
> The depths can have that scurvy knave  
> Just drop him, Lady, drop him!
> 
> When the soldier met the Mistral’s crew  
> Not a word of their great deeds he knew  
> And the Seawolf he took for a servant lass  
> Great Andraste, what an ass!
> 
> ‘Fore the Seawolf’s ire, no man could stand  
> Soldier felt his death was close at hand  
> Two great steps back did he retreat  
> And the cliff side crumbled 'neath his feet.


	3. Sea of Troubles

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which Bryce is a laughing stock.

Bryce Cousland would like to explain to his future daughter that he has the **_utmost_ ** respect for women. He would also like to make it _very_ clear to any future son-in-law that he has a very powerful right hook and once took on three Great Bears, at once, and without any armor.[1] He would then (menacingly) point to the three Great Bear throw rugs in the main hall of Castle Cousland.

 

Unfortunately, younger Bryce had a tendency to make foolish, impulsive decisions that often involved women.

 

He fell like a bag of sweet jellies into the roiling waters. His breath was taken away from him violently, and survival instincts took over. One moment he was fighting the angry waves, and the next he was dragging himself to the sandy shores of the Coast. For those minutes, a quiet rage had built up in Bryce, and he would have lashed out if it wouldn’t have looked terribly stupid to slice water with his sword. He had already topped his stupid-quota for the day, thank you.

 

Speaking of thanks, _Thank you Maker, for whatever drunken state you were in, for creating high tides._

 

Soaked down to his naughties, Bryce moved like an angry, wet bear that had discovered a thorn lodged in his soft paw. Everything made him angry. Fucking birds, fucking trees. Fucking rain. Fucking fuck. Fucking blue eyes, shit.

 

Blue eyes. Bryce thought of the she-demon that he would most certainly give a stern talking-to when he saw her again. This time he would come prepared with bodyguards, heavy armor, and leave his poor, sensitive feelings in his other pants. He would lecture her - extensively - about appropriate reactions, what classified as ‘terribly rude,’ and how to best clean a rag (tip: don’t wipe dirt on it). He would then also ask after her father, who he believed had done a _teeeerrible_ job. No daughter of his would be so carefree with a dagger! [2] Discipline was in the blood of a Cousland! There is no greater honor than blah, blah, etc etc, insert Father’s rambling here.

 

Once he had gotten that all sorted out, Bryce felt much better. He went off to his tent, ignored the snickers from his infantry. The bastards knew nothing of loyalty. Nothing! Bryce groaned. When Leonas heard about this...

 

Bryce changed into his full armor. He looked like an overstuffed tube of metal, but he was willing to sacrifice fashion when he next met the she-demon.

 

Feeling it best to avoid the Overlook (he definitely did not want to see smug captain faces right now), Bryce decided to hunt for the Mistress on the shore. Unfortunately for him, the majority of the captains had come down from the Overlook, and by the looks everyone gave him, the news of his sudden... decision to take a bath had spread.

 

Leonas appeared behind him like an unwanted black jelly treat mixed with all the other delicious red and orange jelly treats. 

“Soooo...” Leonas began.

“Don’t you start,” Bryce warned, “I’ll rip out your tongue and shove it back up your arse, so help me.”

“ _Water_ you talking about?” Leonas asked innocently. Bryce glared, and Leonas continued: “I don’t _sea_ what you’re so upset about. Why don’t you tell me what’s bothering you? Don’t tell me our relationship is now _on the rocks_!” Leonas gasped in mock horror. Bryce wanted to rip both of their hair out.

 

“When I see her...” Bryce said.

“You’ll what? Tell her she looks better on her feet rather than her knees, afterall?” Leonas said cheekily. Bryce turned, horror in his eyes.

“Maker, you heard that?”  
  
“Bryce, a hundred men were right next to you.” Leonas said, laughing, “Even her father was next to you!”

“Father?” Bryce asked, “Right, who is this fellow? The man needs a severe lesson in the upbringing of maidens, I tell you.” Leonas stared at him.

 

“What?” Bryce asked. “WHAT?” He repeated when Leonas said nothing. And then Leonas burst out laughing, smacking Bryce’s metal tube armor violently as he was doubled over.

“Bryce, her father is...” Leonas began... and then promptly burst out laughing again. “Her father is Bann Fearchar Mac Eanraig, you colossal imbecile!”

 

Bryce’s world stopped turning for a moment. Several long breaths and internal monologues later, Bryce spoke:

 

“So how much do you think it’ll cost to change my name and flee to the Free Marches?”

“I think you can well afford it after Fearchar shoves his golden axe up your arse.” Leonas said smugly. “Wait, no, that came out wrong.”

“I fear that that came out exactly right,” Bryce lamented, “What am I going to do now? I’m a laughing stock! A disgrace to the Cousland name! A tea stain on the grand tapestry of Ferelden nobility!”

“Well, you could apologize to the lady. Her name is Lady Eleanor Mac Eanraig. She’s the captain of the Mistral.”

“The Mistral?” Bryce asked, the ghost of a memory haunting him. Leonas smiled.

“The Mistral, not the Mistress.”

“Don’t tell me...” Bryce began, and upon seeing Leonas’ face, “Oh, Maker’s unwashed left testicle...”

“Great image!” Leonas said brightly as he smacked his best friend’s shoulder in empathy.

 

They found the Mistral parked on the shore. Of course, everywhere Bryce went, guffaws followed. His ears no longer blushed, though. And for that he was ever grateful.

 

A scrawny boy was guarding the plank that led aboard the ship. Bryce took a step forward before Leonas stopped him.

 

“Now, play nice.” Leonas said as he adjusted Bryce’s non-existent collar and smoothed out his wet locks. “Remember, they’re scared of you more than you’re scared of them. Don’t pull pigtails, try not to eat glue or dirt, but to be honest I’ve lost all hope in that regard.”

“Are you quite finished?” Bryce asked with a glare.

“Quite.” Leonas said, hands going behind his back. Bryce wanted to scrub that smug look off of his face.

 

The scrawny boy stopped them from coming onto the plank.

 

“Have ye gotya papers?”

“Papers? I had no idea you were so bureaucratic here on the coasts.” Bryce said through gritted teeth.

“No papers no boarding the ship.” the boy said. Bryce sighed. Of course the day would go like this. Of course it would. Why couldn’t he have stayed at home and sucked his thumb and ate jellies all day just as his Father had instructed?

“I'm sure your captain will know the details.” Bryce said. But then again the last time he saw the captain of the Mistral, she had literally kicked his ass... And no doubt the splinter of a boy had heard that tale. Maker knew even the Orlesians knew by now.

“No papers.” the boy said, and almost instantly there appeared a large meat slab of a man with hands that could crack melons. The man’s arms were built like boulders stacked upon one another. The meat slab said nothing, and in truth he didn't need to. His presence alone was enough.

 

Bryce would like to remind all women present that he is an extremely **brave** and **strong** man who took on _three_ Great Bears _without_ any armor. He would also like to add that he isn’t a fucking idiot, to go and provoke a man built like a Dwarven golem, and so he cannot possibly be accused of cowardice. He would also like to say that his quaking legs were not due to fear, but due to genuine excitement to be before such a fine specimen of a soldier.

 

Bryce would also like to remind Leonas that he knows his dirty secret, so Leonas better shut his fucking mouth before Bryce decides to open his.

 

And so, Bryce turned to see Fearchar for his fucking papers, because apparently someone had the _fantastic_ idea to get organized in the midst of war.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short & fun chapter featuring Leonas, the God of Puns and Wisecracks when not completely shitting his pants. 
> 
> Poor Bryce.
> 
> [1] Let’s face it, after Inquisition, any one who can take on one Great Bear is a champion. Three, and without any armor? Bryce doesn’t fuck around. So don’t you fuck around with his daughter, he will DESTROY you. (Looking at you Alistair)
> 
> [2] I've got bad news for you, Bryce... Your daughter's going to absolutely SLAY with daggers.
> 
> Also replaying Origins, I find that Eleanor has green-ish eyes. Not gonna change it in the previous chapter, but it'll make for an interesting revelation to Bryce later on!


	4. The Seawolf

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which Bryce tries his best not to fall in love.

Bryce had only turned from the boy and cube of sliced ham when he came face to face with the she-demon. It was a good thing a good two meters separated them, otherwise Bryce would have been compelled to do something stupid again. Maker, she was fierce. And _beautiful_.

 

She didn’t say anything, and Bryce realized that she held the same air that her father did. All eyes on the shore were now on them, and Bryce’s noble upbringing finally gave him some shoddy excuse for manners. He inclined his head, keeping his ice blue eyes on her. There was a strangely charged moment between them before she inclined her head as well.

 

Wordlessly, she brushed past him (Maker she smells good! Like Crystal Grace petals!). The scrawny boy and meat slab who were guarding the plank moved aside, grins plastered on their faces. His eyes followed her before his body jerked to follow.

Immediately the boy and meat slab lost their grins. They moved back to their original positions. Knowing that all eyes were on him, Bryce threw his self-preservation to the dogs and decided to bring out his inner tough guy, who was currently still nursing his hurt feelings from being kicked off a cliff.

 

“Just try it,” Bryce said through gritted teeth as he shoved past them. The boy and rotting slab of Bronto meat hadn’t heard him move, despite him being decked in armor. They had barely even seen him close the distance between them. The cube of flesh unconsciously rubbed his wrist, until he realized that Bryce had had a punishing hold on it for only an instant as he brushed by. The two sailors of the Mistral stared at the soldier’s back. Maybe he wasn’t a useless dolt after all.

 

After clambering on board the Mistral, Bryce finally realized that he had left Leonas behind. He turned to find Leonas waving enthusiastically at him. No amount of angry gesturing and sharp glares could get Leonas Bryland onto the deck of the ship. Bryce gave up. Leonas had forsaken him just when he needed him the most.

 

 _Just see if I share my jelly pastries with you the next time,_ Bryce thought with a huff as he turned away. He watched Eleanor Mac Eanraig as she glided past the other sailors and into her quarters.

 

The Soldier followed the Seawolf into the captain’s cabin. No one made to stop him.

 

She had left the door open for him. By the time he stepped through the threshold, she was leaning back onto her large desk (Bryce assumed it was nailed to the floor boards), her palms on supporting her weight (Bryce wanted to be the one supporting her weight), and her eyes staring right through him (Bryce was wearing a lot of armor so he was fairly confident she couldn’t see his naughty bits).

 

For a captain’s quarters, it was a simple room. Desk, hammock, barrels, cupboards, boxes. Then there was that small wooden screen in the corner. There was a bed behind it.

 

Bryce couldn’t help but notice the fact that they were alone, in a small room (which was getting smaller by the minute), with a bed that was likely very warm and plush. The light filtering through the open window behind her set her silver blond hair on fire, and she looked like Andraste herself. Feeling terrible for lusting after a woman who looked like the Maker’s bride, Bryce shot the man upstairs a quick prayer asking for forgiveness... And then he continued to ogle Eleanor.

 

She spoke first.

“Bryce Cousland, one of the younger commanders of King Maric’s army.”

“Younger, yes. But by far the most handsome.” Bryce said, grinning. She did not return his smile. _Ugh, a sourpuss._ Why were all the beautiful women so unreceptive of his golden jokes and even more golden looks?

“Likely the most stupid as well.” Eleanor said. Bryce’s heart soared: ‘as well.’ She agrees that he’s handsome! The _most_ handsome, in fact. Oh _Maker_ , she finds him _most_ handsome, which means that they’ll have a handsome son, and that he’ll be the _most_ handsome son and then maybe they’ll even have a daught-- Bryce’s mind snapped back to attention when he saw the look on her face.

 

Did... Did he say all of that aloud?

 

“The way we met was... Unconventional.” Eleanor began. Maker bless him, he hadn’t said any of it out loud. “I hope that I’ve made it clear even to you that any unwelcome advances will be dealt with ruthlessly.”

 

_‘Even to you’? Rude!_

 

“I assure you, my lady, that I have no desire for a repeat of this morning’s events.”

“Yes, you do look like the sort to disdain any sort of interaction with water.” She made a show of pinching her nose. RUDE! He liked baths very much, thank you. Especially the ones with soft soaps soaking his skin. Those were the best. Very well, Bryce decided, he could be snarky too!

“Oh no, what I disdain is being kicked by a man.” Her mouth twitched.

“You should then be grateful that the kick was from a woman.”

“Was it? The last time I was near a woman’s legs, I recall them distinctly pointing upwards.” Bryce said with a smirk, “And I have a powerful memory.” Well, no, the last bit wasn’t true. He had shit memory, but he was very much enjoying putting her in her place.

 

“You seemed to think I was a woman well enough when I was on my knees.” Eleanor said, pushing off the desk angrily. It was definitely the wrong thing to say, and she immediately realized it.

“Oh! I hadn’t known we were talking about you. Forgive me. Would you like to get on your knees again to jog my memory?”

“You said you had a good memory.” She was cornered and she knew it. She had tried to be civil, damnit!

“No, I said I had a powerful one.” Bryce said, thoroughly enjoying their squabble. They were like teenagers! “Perhaps you’re the one who needs _a good memory_ , however.” He stepped closer, insinuation in his every word. The air was suddenly fraught with a new kind of tension.

“And what you need is another good soak.”

 

Bryce let her words hang in the air. They stared at one another for a long time, and at some point her eyes softened and she didn’t seem so guarded. He thought of crossing the short distance between them, holding her by the waist, pushing her up against the desk, feeling her soften between his powerful legs. He thought of brushing his lips against hers, gently. In those moments he thought of a million different things.

 

Something was wrong, however. Bryce turned just seconds before Fearchar appeared at the doorway of the cabin. The Storm Giant quirked a knowing brow at both of them. Bryce’s hands went behind his back before he broke the silence.

 

“Bann Fearchar, shall we discuss strategies against the Orlesian fleet?” He asked innocently.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Headcannon that Bryce falls in love with Eleanor first, and just manages to colossally fuck up every time he tries to become closer to her. He’s a smooth-talking bad boy in the streets, but a naive man-child who pulls pigtails when it comes to feels.
> 
>  
> 
> Headcannon that Eleanor has never been so outrageously flirted with and doesn’t know how to handle it at all, much to Bryce’s endless amusement. 
> 
>  
> 
> Headcannon that Fearchar ships the two of them hardcore.


	5. Correspondences

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which Bryce and friends send one another letters.

**Letter to Rendon Howe from Leonas Bryland**

_Howe,_

_You will never believe this story, but I assure you that the coast is positively foaming at the mouth because of it. Bryce - our Bryce - has gotten himself in a fine broth now. He’s gone and angered the infamous Seawolf (he didn’t know her identity at the time, though I imagine little would have changed even if he had)._

_We were at Morrin’s Overlook when Bryce sees this wench on her knees. A few indecent remarks later, she’s got him at dagger point about to fall off the edge. The imbecile decides to flirt with her even then, and she rewarded him with a powerful kick... Into the ocean!_

_I fear that our Bryce has fallen head-over-heels with the little sprite, and indeed she’s a beautiful one. He’s too stupid to realize it though, and alas all I can do as the only smart friend present is sigh and nudge him in the right direction. Do tease him about it all, will you? I’ve no doubt he’ll write to you hoping to get to you before an exaggerated version of the tale spreads to all of Ferelden._

_How fares my sister? Eliane’s a bit of a bore so I’m eternally thankful you’ve put up with her for these five years, but really Howe, do us all a favor and teach her not to write so... clinically._

_I hope all is well in Amaranthine._

_No greater honor,  
Leonas Bryland _

 

**Letter to Leonas Bryland from Rendon Howe**

_Bryland,_

_I’m sure you were so eager to inform me of these events out of the kindness of your heart. What would I do without you to keep me abreast in all such matters?_

_I have inquired about the Seawolf, and she is indeed as fierce as you claim. I’m afraid news of Bryce’s ‘fall’ has spread along the Coastland. It’s only a matter of time until his father... Well, you know._

_Eliane is well, though you have some nerve insulting the future wife of the Arl of Amaranthine! When you get back we’ll have to duel over your sister’s honor, only it won’t be much of a duel with me trouncing you. Rest assured that I will let Eliane patch you up afterwards._

_No greater honor,_  
_Rendon Howe_  
_Arl of Amaranthine_

 

**Letter to Rendon Howe from Bryce Cousland**

_Rendon,_

_I regret to inform you that your best friend, the only man worthy of being called a man (besides you, and whatever sons we may have, etc etc.) has met a_ _bitch_ _. Rest assured that I gave her_ _a stern talking to._ _I also met her father and told her just exactly what I thought about her unseemly conduct. The man appears to have taken my advice, as all good wise men tend to do. Which is why I hope you’ll listen when I say this, Rendon:_

_You’ve done a splendid job in Amaranthine. What do you say to joining us up here in the trenches, just like old times?_

_Give my love to Eliane!_

_No greater honor,  
Bryce _

 

**Letter to Bryce Cousland from Rendon Howe**

_Bryce,_

_And I regret to inform you, old friend, that Leonas has already wrote to me of the circumstances in which you met your ‘bitch.’ It pleases me to finally hear that there’s a woman who sees you as a terrible bore. But it also angers me to hear it, that_ _bitch_ _! She must be subdued, Bryce! Perhaps we can pull her pigtails, leave glue in her porridge, and accidentally let loose an army of lizards in her bedroll. That will teach her, the fiend!_

_Now, Leonas tells me that your bitch is in fact the infamous Seawolf. You’ve heard of the Storm Giant, her father, of course. But I imagine that in typical Bryce fashion you completely ignored all tales of the daughter. Let me tell you: she’s renowned as an incredible raider, having sunken her first warship when she was 15! She’s taken down more ships than Fearchar himself. I’m only telling you so that you can be wary of your own porridge and bedroll, friend. But don’t worry, I hear that she’s a fine sight on her knees, which must surely make up for all her other fearsome qualities._

_As for joining you, I’m afraid that my duties call for me to remain here. I shall keep peace in the land while you and Leonas fight for its freedom. We have always worked together for a common good, and this is no different._

_Eliane sends you her love as well._

_No greater honor,_  
_Rendon Howe_  
_Arl of Amaranthine_

 

**Letter to Rendon Howe from Bryce Cousland**

_Leonas is a bastard and I hate you both._

_Love to Eliane!_

_N.G.H,  
Bryce _

 

**Letter to Leonas Bryland from Eliane Bryland**

  
_Clinical this, you codpiece!_

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THIS BROMANCE WILL ONLY END WHEN ITS RIPPED FROM MY COLD DEAD HANDS.
> 
> For those a bit confused, Leonas' sister Eliane Bryland marries Rendon Howe. Historically, Rendon moves to Amaranthine after White River, and Eliane (who heals him) goes with him. Howe proposes to her a year later (saying she might as well get married to him if she didn't plan on leaving-- terribly romantic, our Rendon). Five years have since passed, and they're still engaged. 
> 
> Leonas later doesn't approve of the marriage, and then breaks contact with Howe and Eliane. It'll be interesting to see how it all happens, but for now, THE BROMANCE LIVES!


	6. The Planasene Pass

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which Bryce loses control.

Bryce Cousland’s 30 soldiers settled into life aboard the Mistral. There was tension between the soldiers and sailors as a result of the... awkwardness... between Bryce and Eleanor. But despite their opposite loyalties, they got along well together and it wasn’t long before they were swapping grossly exaggerated tales of their valor over large mugs of ale.

 

It was known throughout the ship how Bryce and Eleanor had first met. Simmons (one of the bawdier sailors aboard the Mistral) had made a song out of it, and it was being sung on all the other ships in Fearchar’s fleet. Eleanor had heard it only once before threatening to skewer all those who dared to sing it on the Mistral.

 

Bryce, for his part, spent the greater half of these two days trying to not heave out his lunch over the ship railing. Maker, he _hated_ the sea.

 

Eleanor, having never noticed Bryce’s aversion to sailing, grudgingly admitted that Bryce was a fine soldier. Not a _fine_ soldier, but a soldier who was just fine. Not _fine_ fine. Just, you know, fine. Whatever his personality, he had a head for battle tactics and she could see that his men would gladly follow him to the death.

 

Bryce thought that Eleanor was completely out of her mind, in the best sort of way. She was all sorts of daring and crazy, and he couldn’t help but feel pity for the constant headache that she must cause Fearchar. But Fearchar seemed immensely proud of his wildcat daughter, and Bryce could see why. Her sailors followed her every word, and she led them like a well trained pack of dogs. _Seawolf_ , indeed.

 

The two had (for the most part) coexisted peacefully (they avoided each other):

Bryce let Eleanor take care of the sailing, which she was exceptionally good at.

Eleanor let Bryce lead the on-deck training of the soldiers and sailors. True, her sailors were finely trained, but a new group of 30 men necessitated seamless teamwork. Bryce conducted the 60 men to the ground (well, the deck) with his intense training regiment.

 

For the past two days they sailed along the Waking Sea, with 9 other Ferelden ships sailing alongside them. They were Ferelden’s first line of defense against the Orlesian naval forces.

 

They were several leagues south of Kirkwall, and were just at the mouth of the Planasene Pass.[1] If they held their positions, it would be a wonderful chokepoint against the Orlesian forces.

 

“Anything?” Bryce asked, walking up to Eleanor. She was by the ship’s edge, using her spy glass to scan the horizon.

“Nothing as of yet,” Eleanor said, absently handing him the spy glass. He looked through it wordlessly.

“Strange. They should be coming to us in droves by now.” Bryce said, closing the spy glass and handing it back to Eleanor.

“You sound disappointed.” Bryce chuckled.

“I’m itching for a good battle, yes.” The mirth on his face faded a little, “But it’s been more than a fortnight since King Maric killed Meghren. I expected a faster Orlesian retaliation.”

“Perhaps they're gathering their forces for a heavy attack, hoping to break through our defense through sheer numbers.” Eleanor suggested, leaning against the railing. Bryce shook his head.

“No, they know their troops already outnumbers ours. They would want us to exhaust our supplies and soldiers before sending in their real forces.”

“Which means that they could still be rallying up the ‘real’ forces.” Eleanor said. Bryce ran his hand through his hair.

“Maybe.” His eyes scanned the horizon once more before he turned away. He turned back almost immediately, his eyes full of alarm. He barely glanced her way before rushing into the captain’s cabin. Eleanor followed after him, confused and worried.

 

“What if they’re using the Narrows?”[2] Bryce asked as soon as she entered her cabin. He was poring over the map of Orlais and Ferelden that was on her desk.

“We’d already ruled that out,” Eleanor said, coming around the table. “But just in case, my Father has troops stationed all over the coasts, taking the Narrows would be suicide.”

“They would take it not as a main method of attack. It would serve only as a distraction. Our other ships would be rerouted to deal with it, meaning that the 10 ships here, including the Mistral, would be the only line of defense until more reinforcements arrive.” Bryce said.

“True, but navigating the Narrows in warships is no easy task. Their ships would take beatings along the rocky coasts.” Eleanor said, “Besides, they surely don’t expect us to reroute several of our large warships to address their measly distraction in the Narrows!”

“Not if they came in merchant ships. They’re smaller, but they can still carry large cargo.” Bryce said, meeting Eleanor’s eyes.

“Like soldiers.” Eleanor said with dawning realization.

“Like soldiers.” Bryce repeated, “As for rerouting our ships... We have no choice. Either way, we’ll be damned. How long until more of our reinforcements are expected to arrive?”

“By nightfall, I believe.” Eleanor said, returning her eyes to the map.

 

“But Cousland, this is all still just conjecture.” Eleanor said with a shake of her head. “We can’t reroute our ships based on your guess.”

“True. But look, we’ve been here for nearly a day and a half, and we've yet to see any sign of them. They might be expecting us to go on the offensive and go deeper into the Planasene Pass, where they plan to ambush us from behind Aldenon’s Islands.”[3] Eleanor worried her lip. It was a definite possibility.

“They could also be funnelling in troops through the Narrows, amassing a small regiment on one of the coasts. If they do, they'll be at a prime location to avoid the bulk of our forces. Thus far we've been acting under the assumption that they would charge. These small raiding parties can do severe damage to our coastal villages since we’re largely unprepared for them.”

“I understand, Cousland. But what do you propose? We can't leave the main line of defense wide open. We still have time, by nightfall we will have more ships blocking the Pass. We can reroute our smaller ships to the Narrows, then.”

 

“We haven’t got the time for that. If I’m correct, then they’ve been sitting in the Narrows for at least a week and a half.” Bryce said, his hand going through his hair again. Eleanor searched his face again before responding.

“For now we'll do some damage control. You can send word to my father to bolster the number of soldiers on the Narrows.” Bryce nodded.

“I'll write to Leonas too. Hopefully he can convince the other regiments to be on their guard as well.” Bryce hastily left.

 

Eleanor’s cabin seemed to suddenly return to its normal size after Bryce left. He was a very tall and imposing figure, and took up a lot of space just by being. Left alone, the Seawolf had time to think.

 

It was only a few moments before she sprang into action herself, a gleam of something dangerous in her eyes.

 

_Twenty minutes later..._

Bryce had just exited his quarters, hastily written letters in hand, when he saw the absolute chaos above deck. The sailors were scurrying this way and that, pulling at ropes and adjusting sails.

 

“What's happened?” Bryce asked James, one of the sailors on the Mistral.

“The Captain has called for a change of course.” James said, hurrying away to unfurl another sail.

“She what?” Bryce whispered before stomping his way towards the steering wheel.

 

As expected, she was there, shouting orders all around her and swiveling the damn thing like it was a parasol.

 

“What are you doing?” he didn't mean to make it sound like an accusation, but he realized that it came out as a whispered hiss, which was really quite terribly executed of him.

“We're withdrawing from the first charge and rerouting.” Eleanor said, a lively spark in her eyes, “And by we, I mean the Mistral only.”

“And where are we going?” but Bryce knew. Maker help them, he knew. She said nothing.

 

“The Narrows, Seawolf?” Bryce asked in an incredulous whisper. “You said that navigating them in a warship would be suicide!”

“The Mistral isn't any ordinary warship.” Eleanor said simply. Bryce threw his hands up in the air.

“Oh forgive me for not noticing how special of a snowflake your blasted ship is. I must have forgotten since it looks _so very_ different from all of the other ships I've seen.” Eleanor glared at him.

“Your sarcasm does you little credit, Cousland.” she said, “What I mean is that I am the Seawolf. If anyone can sail the Narrows in a warship, it’s me.”

 

Bryce stared at her, cold rage in his eyes.

“You’re endangering the lives of these men, _my_ men, on some assumption of your skill.” He bit out, “War is no place for a power trip, you little fool. I will not have them follow you to your death because of your fucking pride.”

“And what of _your_ pride, then?” Eleanor retaliated, thunder clouds in her eyes, “Are you so humiliated to have the control over your 30 _measly_ men be put in another’s hands? A woman’s hands?”

“Don’t be stupid --” Bryce began.

“And don’t you treat me like a fucking schoolgirl Cousland. I’ve seen your patronizing looks, and I can read your thoughts like a picture book. Go nurse your manly pride and let those with _real_ command take charge.”

 

Silence. Bryce’s hands were trembling. He made fists at his side, his knuckles turning white. His breaths were coming in heavy and Eleanor saw sweat beading along his neck. Abruptly and wordlessly, he turned away, heading to the crew's quarters -- his quarters.

 

Eleanor ignored him.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [1] No idea what this part of the Waking Sea is called. I wish there were more geographical landmarks on the map of Thedas. I’m calling it the Planasene Pass because the “sea” thins a bit, and it’s south of the Planasene Forest. As you can see, naming this is clearly my forte. 
> 
> [2] In this case the Narrows are the small rivers that separate the three islands just south of the Planasene forest.
> 
> [3] Aldenon’s Islands is the name I've given to the three islands on the (made-up) Planasene Pass. Aldenon was King Calenhad’s best mage bro.
> 
> Here's a shitty visual of what's happening right now: http://i.imgur.com/rxBAHkE.png
> 
> How am I doing thus far? Thoughts/comments? :)


	7. What Makes a Soldier

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which Bryces encounters his monsters once more.

Bryce sat in his cramped quarters, insulating himself in the darkness. Outside, he could hear the purposeful steps of the scrambling sailors. He clutched his head. His breathing hadn’t slowed. He felt rage and pain and fear all at once, burning everywhere. His heart was racing, his palms were slick with blood, _not his own, never his own, but always blood._

 

He gasped for air. Thundering hooves and heavy iron shields fought for dominance in his head. Blunt axes struck him repeatedly. He groaned, reaching for a spear, reaching for a dead comrade. He found Angus again, tried to help him, save him, take control. He was lost, there was only smoke, and ash, and something else. There was fear, just out of reach, but always chasing after him. He began to cough violently, and retched in the dark clouds of dust kicked up by agitated horses. He heard Leonas cry out, saw Rendon’s mangled limbs. He saw Angus again, struck down by a chevalier, arrows protruding from his eyes. He screamed Bryce’s name. Run, run, run, Bryce thought. Run. So he ran. Past the bloody fields. Into his home, safe. Safe, quiet. Father. By the bedside, wasting away. Smells of death, always after him. Father’s anger, disappointment. And then Angus again, coming at him with bloody eyes and ragdoll limbs. Angus again, screeching violently and clawing at Bryce’s legs, dragging him through the battlefield. _Cold_.

 

He was back again in his small, cramped quarters on the Mistral. Only it wasn’t the same, each shadow was an assailant, a dying friend, Angus, Rendon, Father. He tried to scuttle away to a corner, tried to remember defensive tactics. Find a weapon, bludgeon, bludgeon. Bryce searched frantically, throwing and kicking aside everything he deemed useless. _A weapon, please, I need a weapon!_ He begged. There was none. He whimpered, sobbed, and returned to his corner.

  
Holding on to his knees, Bryce Cousland cried.


	8. Accidental Commander

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which Bryce does what must be done.

By nightfall, the Mistral had made tremendous progress through the Central Narrow. None of the crew had seen Commander Cousland since the morning. A few of his soldiers had been to his quarters, but had found them barred, and only silence on the other side. Samuel, Bryce’s second-in-command, had suggested they leave him be for now. The soldiers departed, forlorn and puzzled by their commander’s disappearance.

Bryce re-emerged from his self-imposed isolation at midnight. He came to Eleanor’s side. Neither said anything, though Eleanor noticed that it seemed as though he had aged considerably since their quarrel. She did not bring it up, however, and continued to steer the Mistral through the Narrow. It was becoming grueling work, even for her. Bryce watched in silence beside her, his eyes glazed over and his mind likely on distant people and places.

 

“We will need to prepare for landing.” Bryce said, leaving her side. Eleanor nodded to his back, feeling confused and strangely hurt over his refusal to even look at her.

Bryce moved mechanically, instructing his soldiers of the procedures: He would take 15 of them with him, plus another 10 sailors. The remaining crew will stay on guard on the Mistral, awaiting further orders. Bryce assumed its Captain would remain. Eleanor, overhearing his plans, did nothing to stop them. The Mistral soon docked at the southern-most tip of the central island.

Bryce’s men, accompanied by the ten soldiers, disembarked. As he left, Bryce’s eyes momentarily met Eleanor’s, but they were devoid of their usual mirth. His eyes passed over hers in boredom. He turned and left.

 

Bryce led his men silently through the thicket of the forest that covered the coast. They walked steadily and silently, making quick time. They hardly stopped for breaks, though the sailors were unused to extensive walking. Bryce never considered leaving them behind, however; he needed them to seize any Orlesian ships.

He was operating under the assumption that his theory was correct. And it was.

In the hours of dawn, they came upon an Orlesian encampment. Bryce guessed that there would be at least a hundred chevaliers in the camp, and no doubt more incoming. If they made themselves known, it would be outright slaughter. Bryce sent out Victor, one of his soldiers, to subdue a lone chevalier with a heavily plumed golden helmet. Victor, already used to stealth takedowns, stashed the chevalier’s body in the bushes, stripped him of his gear, and returned to Bryce within a span of ten minutes. It was his own personal best.

 

With the chevalier armor in hand, Bryce turned to his soldiers.

“So which one of you is an exceptional actor?” Bryce asked, “Don’t you raise your hand Victor, I know you’re shit.” Victor slowly put his hand down. A sailor by the name of Simmons spoke:

“I’ve got a fine voice.” he said, “And I can pull off accents as well.”

“Excellent, then you’re the man for the job.” Bryce said. “Now put this cumbersome thing on.”

Bryce began to strip his own armor. His soldiers, used to this procedure, retreated a few paces and listened to the orders that they knew he would give them while he undressed.

“Simmons here will adopt an Orlesian accent,” Bryce began, “Which I assume you’ll know how to do. If you don’t, just pinch your nose and wheeze a bit and pretend you’re sick or something.”

 

Bryce continued:

“As an Orlesian Chevalier of whatever reputation that man comatose in the bushes had, Simmons will deliver me, Bryce Cousland, a commander of the Ferelden army etc etc, all beaten and bruised, trussed up like a chicken before a banquet.” He pulled off his shirt.

“Now hit me.” Bryce said. He didn’t even finish before his soldiers began to kick him and land elbows on him. Bryce held still throughout, though his breathing hitched and his fists clenched.

When it was over, he smiled even though he had a split lip, a dislocated shoulder, a slowly blackening eye, and several bruises all over his body. Victor, for good measure, kicked his ankle in. Bryce glared at him, but patted him on the shoulder amicably.

“Delightful,” he said, “Now if you will kindly do me the honors of being my captor, Simmons, that would be fantastic.” Simmons nodded, using his belt to tie Bryce’s hands behind his back.

“As for the rest of you, I want my archers on the trees, picking out lone soldiers and assisting footsoldiers from afar. Footsoldiers, take down all lone chevaliers. Without a sound, etc etc, you know the way I work. Sailors stay hidden in the trees. Not a chirp until my signal.”

“What will your signal be?” one of the Mistral’s younger sailors asked. Piper was his name, if Bryce remembered correctly.

“General chaos, I wager.” Bryce said wryly, “Fire, screams, etcetera. Shouldn’t be too hard to miss.”

 

With that, Simmons the Orlesian Chevalier led Bryce Cousland the Orlesian Prisoner towards the center of the camp. Several chevaliers turned curious eyes to them, though none spoke. Some even inclined their head deferentially to the man. Noticing their behaviours, Bryce quickly compared their armors. _Oh Maker’s left earlobe_ , Victor had stolen the armor of the regiment commander. The instant that Simmons opened his mouth, they would both die.

“Regarde qu’est-ce que j'ai trouvé!” Simmons shouted. Bryce turned to look at him, Shartan’s holy knickers, the man actually knew Orlesian! Bryce was impressed, but this posed new problems. Surely they would recognize that their commander’s voice was completely different, even though Simmons was wearing his helmet, so perhaps he could pass as having caught a cold or something...

Simmons did not share any of Bryce’s concerns; his Orlesian was absolutely fantastic. His mother hailed from Orlais, and then she had abandoned him and his father, so he felt no love there. At least she proved to be useful in some way. He had not noticed the fact that he was essentially the commander of the Orlesian encampment. When other chevaliers gathered around them, he encouraged them to bring out the commander.

“Je veux d’abord parler avec --”

“AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!” Bryce screamed. Simmons turned to him in shock. _What the fuck?_

“You Orlesian swine! Rat-tail bastard, scourge of the plains, eater of children and popper of pimples! You did not tell me you were the commander!” Bryce shouted at Commander Simmons. “Demons take you, filth!”

Simmons stared at him, open-mouthed. _He_ was the commander? _Oh, for Andraste’s sake._ Simmons kicked Bryce into submission.

“Shut up-uh, you fuul!” Simmons did his best Orlesian speaking Ferelden-accent. Bryce held his peace. The man was an exceptional actor, indeed!

“Toi là! Prends ce prisonnier à ma tente.” The plan was to have one of the chevaliers take away Bryce to the commander’s tent. Simmons would then follow discreetly, appearing busy and determined every time someone tried to speak to him.

 

Inside the tent, and once the other chevalier left, Simmons looked at Bryce.

“Well, now what?”

“To be honest I hadn’t thought this far.”

“What do you mean you hadn’t thought this far?” Simmons whispered harshly.

“Well, I expected us to be taken to the commander’s tent, where you and I would have overpowered him, and had him at dagger point to deal with the situation as we wished. However, it seems as though Victor took care of that particular concern of ours. I must say, however, that I am quite impressed with your Orlesian. Parentage?”

“My mother,” Simmons replied curtly, “You best come up with a plan.”

“Already have. Can you read Orlesian?”

“Sailors can’t read.” Simmons said blankly.

“Ah, right.” Bryce said, “Well that defeats the purpose of reading those conveniently placed confidential missives. We’ll just have to sneak it back with us, I suppose.”

“Any other plan?”

“Well I don’t see you offering anything beneficial to this relationship!”

“I acted as a commander!”

“Oh, fantastic, that makes both of us!” Bryce quipped with syrupy enthusiasm. Simmons groaned.

 

“Oh. I have an idea.” Bryce said after a few moments. “But you won’t like it.”

“Well, it stays true to tradition then.”

“Let’s not forget that you volunteered, dear Simmons.”

“Let’s not forget that I’m the commander, Cousland.” Bryce gasped in mock horror, and then his face straightened quickly and he was back to being in charge, though, if Simmons was to be honest, never had it ever felt like Bryce had actually lost control of the situation.

“Invite one of the chevaliers in.” Bryce said, “And then we overtake him.” Simmons nodded.

“And then what?”

“We rinse and repeat until we’ve got enough unconscious bodies in this tent to put any brothel to shame.” Bryce said. Simmons stared at him.

“Don’t you think they’re bound to notice the people that keep disappearing in the tent?”

“Of course they will, they’re _Orlesian_ , not _stupid_. Though often the two sound similar, wouldn’t you agree?” Bryce said cheerily, “But you see, Commander Simmons, there are two entrances to the tent. One leads to the back of the camp. We tell the incoming chevaliers that their honorable compatriots are waiting just beyond the cloth, and that they’re specially chosen for a super secret initiative.”

“And then we kill them and stash the body outside.”

“Now you’re getting it! Being commander isn’t so difficult now is it? You just make the rules up as you go along.”

“This is absolutely mad.” Simmons said. And then he opened the tent and called the nearest chevalier inside.

 

“Ton nom?” Simmons asked.

“C’est Matthieu, seigneur.”

“Excellent. Matthieu, est-ce que tu peut montrer moi ton épée?”

“Pardon?”

“Ton épée, Matthieu. Montre le.” Poor Matthieu the confused Orlesian Chevalier fumbled for his sword. Bryce used the distraction to come up behind him and slit his throat. Bryce nodded at Simmons, and carried the dead boy’s body outside through the back exit. He returned moments later, his eyes blank and emotionless. Simmons summoned the next soldier.

 

They had gotten through eight when the ninth looked around nervously.

“Où sont les autres?” the chevalier asked. Simmons explained that his friends had been assigned to a secret mission. Bryce killed him.

 

It went on and on, until the camp grew quiet.

 

“Now, they’re either asleep, or too afraid.” Bryce said simply. He stuck his head out of the back exit of the tent, whistled a nightingale’s tune, and popped his head back in. Within a minute, 15 of Bryce’s soldiers had squeezed into the tent.

“No one lives.” Bryce said simply, taking his armor back from Victor. The soldiers left to slice sleeping throats.

 

It had been an organized massacre.

 

Bryce didn’t leave behind the small Orlesian ships on the Narrow. Setting fire to them would attract attention from the main fleet. So they they packed up useful cargo onto one, and sunk all the others. The 10 sailors Bryce had brought along, led by Commander Simmons, navigated the Narrow back to where the Mistral waited for them quietly.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you expected Bryce to be honorable in war, you were wrong. There is no honor in war, there is only survival and victory. To quote another amazing Bioware game: “Stand amongst the ashes of a trillion dead souls and ask the ghosts if honor matters. The silence is your answer.” 
> 
> He gave them all quiet deaths; they died unexpectedly, but they did not suffer. Bryce doesn’t want to prolong pain, he only wants to do what must be done. He is a Cousland.


	9. Awkward Apologies

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which Bryce and Eleanor make up.

Bryce boarded the Mistral to a series of cheers. The awaiting sailors and soldiers didn’t know exactly what they were cheering for, but ever since Bryce had left, the ship’s general mood was... Cranky. And of course this had nothing to do with Eleanor. Nothing at all. 

 

Ever modest, Bryce bowed to his audience.

“Yes, yes. It is I,” he flourished a kingly hand wave, “Bryce Cousland, slayer of Orlesian scum. Stunningly handsome as always, but maybe less so today.” The soldiers and sailors nodded and moved on to help their comrades board. In just a few seconds, Bryce was forgotten. 

 

When Eleanor first saw Bryce, her first thought was: _Shit dude, what the fuck happened?_ His face was swollen, he had a split lip that had left blood stains all over half of his face, and a giant black eye that left the other half swollen and unrecognizable. He was limping slightly, and favoring his left arm as well. In short, Bryce looked and shambled along like an abomination. But when he saw her, he smiled. 

  
And the rest of the world disappeared. 

 

He made his way towards her. “Hi, El.” He looked at her from beneath his lashes, a bit shy and abashed to use a nickname with her. It wasn’t as though they were close, after all. When she didn’t say anything and just continued to stare at him, he nervously cleared his throat. 

 

“That bad, huh?” he asked, running a hand through his dark hair. “You’ll have to thank Simmons for that. He was the worst captor a prisoner could ask for. He couldn’t even read, El!”

“Sailors can’t read.” she said. Maker, she sounded so... boring. He was being so charming and lovely, especially after their whole tiff a few hours ago, and all she could manage was a general observation on the state of literacy within a professional class. 

“Yes, he told me that.” Bryce said, “And I absolutely could not believe that you wouldn’t educate your sailors, El. I told him he was out of his mind, because surely Eleanor Mac Inrag of... Seawolf... Fearchar... --” 

“Eleanor Mac Eanraig.” 

“Yes, that’s what I said.”

“You said in rag.”

“Oh. I must have been thinking of what you were holding when I first saw you.” She knew he was teasing her. How liberating it felt to not feel awkwardness after a fight. She playfully smacked his arm. He flinched, and she burst out laughing. 

 

“You have a lovely laugh, El.” Bryce said. His eyes were so unbearably blue. Not like her own eyes, which ranged from blue to green just like the seas. His eyes were pure, untainted blue.And Maker help her, they were _smouldering_.  


“Thank you.” She whispered shyly; she wasn’t good at this whole flirting business. Give her a skillet and a target and she’ll show you a corpse, but give her a good looking man (if a bit worse for wear) with abundant charm? That's an impossible situation!  


“I’m sorry.” Bryce said. Eleanor’s eyebrows knit in confusion. “For earlier. For... Losing control.” He looked at her with those big blue eyes of his. And though he didn’t know it, he was even pouting. It had an overall hideous effect given the state of his face, but Eleanor didn’t seem to notice. 

“I’m sorry as well. You had every right -”

“Well, no, I didn’t, actually.” Bryce said, “It’s your ship.”

“And _your_ soldiers.” 

“ _Your_ sailors.”

“Your...” 

“Stunning good looks?” Bryce said, smiling. Eleanor smiled back. 

“Apology accepted, Cousland.” He nodded thoughtfully. 

 

“And... I realize that it may have seemed like... Like I was treating you like a schoolgirl. As though I did not ... Trust you... Because you are a woman.” It seemed as though he was having trouble finding the words, but Eleanor let him continue: “I... It’s not like that. I respect you; not because you’re a woman or anything. I mean, I do respect... That you’re a woman. But I respect you more because of your talent and skill. You’re not skilled ‘for a woman.’ You’re just skilled. I... I’m not very good with words.” Eleanor wanted to interrupt him with, “You don’t say?” but she withheld so that he could continue. Eleanor sensed that this conversation, this apology, meant more to him than it meant to her. 

“I... Am not fond of losing control.” Bryce whispered it as though it was a damning secret. He finally met her eyes, and Eleanor could see the waves of insecurity that roiled within their blue. Suddenly he stiffened as though that confession had cost him something terrible. 

 

“I should get myself fixed.” He said curtly, turning to go. Eleanor stopped him with a gentle hand to his wrist. 

  
“I’ll help.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Imagine Bryce as the Hunchback of Notredame. 
> 
> Long hiatus. Short chapter to get into the groove of things. Hopefully I can manage a chapter a day from now on. No promises, though.


	10. Lullaby

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which Bryce gets some sleep.

Unfortunately for Bryce, he had completely forgotten what he had left his room like when he left. It was a mess, an atrocity, an abomination, a blight on Ferelden, a travesty, etc. Bryce led Eleanor down to his quarters, and with all the chivalry that he could manage, opened the door and indicated her to enter first. 

 

Regret. That’s what he felt when he joined her inside. She was slackjawed, which Bryce supposed was better than running away as though her hair was on fire. 

“Well...” Eleanor began. She opened her mouth a few times as though to say something, and then closed it as if thinking better of it. “Well.” 

“It’s much more... Organized, usually.” 

“Maker, I should hope so. If being... disorganized ... was a sin, your entire existence would be blasphemous.” Eleanor said. 

“For now my existence is blasphemous for an entirely different reason.” 

“What’s that?” she turned to him. 

“For my stunning good looks.”

“That isn’t a sin.” 

“Ah, but I am sinfully handsome, aren’t I?” Bryce said, and Eleanor laughed.

“Maker, you wouldn’t be that confident if you could see yourself.” She surveyed the wreckage of his room for a looking glass. “How is it that you don’t have a mirror when you’re so self-absorbed?” 

“How is it that you don’t have a broomstick when you’re such a witch?” Bryce retorted, but he too helped with the search. In the end they found a large enough shard of his broken mirror beneath a splintered barrel of mead. 

 

“Andraste’s erect nipple! Is that what I look like right now?” Bryce asked, finally getting a good look at himself. 

“Andraste’s...” Eleanor repeated, and then awkwardly cleared her throat.

“Erect nipple.” Bryce finished for her. “They’re not bad words, you know. You could say them. Go on, try it. Erect. Nipple.” 

“I’d rather not.”

“Ereeeeeect.” Bryce said, speaking comically slow, “Niiiiiiiiiiipple.” 

“Why are you like this.” It was a statement rather than a question and Bryce couldn’t help but laugh. She joined him. 

 

“You know, I’m a sailor. By trade I’m meant to be way more proficient at swearing.” Eleanor said good naturedly. They were sitting on the edge of an overturned chest that once house Bryce’s extra clothes - which were now soaked in mead. 

“Hmm... But you tend to defy norms.” Bryce said. He was sleepy, and being so close to Eleanor, with her sweet smell and soft soothing voice... He blinked hard a few times to keep the sleep at bay. 

“Not all norms.” Eleanor mused.

“Oh?”

“I sing like a sailor.” 

“Then you must be terrible at singing.” Bryce said. Eleanor rolled her eyes.

“I’m likely better than you.” 

“Of that I have no doubt.” Bryce said. After a moment of staring into her eyes, he turned to his side and laid his head down on Eleanor’s lap. “Sing to me, El.” 

 

Eleanor was frozen in shock. But then, as though this was just how it was meant to be, her fingers ran through his hair with strange familiarity. She began to hum as she stroked his hair, kneading it and massaging it softly. Beneath her fingers, she felt him relax; his pulse slowed and all at once the world went still. 

 

And yet it didn’t. Eleanor’s heart was a frantic mess, her fingers were enchanted by his dark locks and couldn’t seem to be able to free themselves from his hair. Her voice continued to sing, even though he was asleep and she knew he couldn’t hear it but something compelled her to keep going, keep going, keep going. 

  
The entire time, she never looked down, in fear that what she saw would make what she was feeling all the more real. Eleanor Mac Eanraig was starting to like Bryce Cousland. And the worst part was that she was likely just another conquest to him. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ANGST??? ONE-SIDED MISUNDERSTANDINGS???? It all depends on how much chocolate I've had tomorrow. 1 Chapter a day, woo!


	11. Tides

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which Bryce does not get his ass kicked.

Bryce woke up to a splitting headache. He turned over and wretched into his already filthy room. He was alone in the dark, which to be honest did _nothing_ to help him on his road to recovery. Bryce smacked a hand to his face and began to drag his palm across it in order to test the damage. Maker’s sweet butthole, _everything_ hurt. Did his soldiers finally manage to kill him? Oh Maker, he was finally going to die and this wooden box of a ship would be his coffin.

Not if he could help it! He could never be bested by a blasted ship. Said blasted ship chose that exact moment to lurch, and an already unsteady Bryce who had just begun to stand up was flung to the other corner of his room.

Bryce was almost certain that Eleanor somehow knew that he was sassing her ship and decided to throw him around to teach him a lesson. When he finally managed to get to his feet again, he felt more accomplished than that time he took down an Orlesian camp entirely - ah, good times. It felt like almost yesterday...

 

It was yesterday. Son of a bitch!

Bryce was suddenly sober, scrambling, and so fucked when Eleanor finds out about the whole conveniently placed Orlesian missives that were never read... Ugh.

Hold on. Eleanor. Bryce stood still for a moment. He distinctly remembered her laughing, but not entirely the context as to why she was laughing, or how he got on board, or just about anything really. He was usually pretty happy about his selective memory after a tough battle but this... God, she was going to kick his ass off another cliff.

Shuffling around for his armor, Bryce realized that someone had taken it off of him. Well, either he hadn’t been as tired as he thought, or someone had taken advantage of his vulnerable state. A shiver of terror ran down his spine.

 

In a few moments Bryce left his room looking every bit a Ferelden commander as he possibly could. He also secretly put extra padding around his nether bits in case Eleanor decided that she would in fact kick his ass.

When he emerged on deck, Bryce was surprised to see that everything was actually smooth sailing. The sky was clear of clouds, there was a strong wind that was likely taking them back to where they had been before they took that ... momentary detour ... and the ship for once did not smell like fish. When the sailors spotted him they nodded in something that could be - oh _Maker_ , was that _recognition_? He was about to swoon, wasn’t he?

When Bryce entered the Captain’s Quarters, he was whistling. Eleanor turned to look at him through narrowed eyes.

 

“Good to see that you’re awake. All the soldiers that you took with you - and even my sailors - are still out of commission, I’m afraid.”

“Ah well,” Bryce said with a playful shrug, “Not everyone can have my endurance.”

“Thankfully not everyone has your room.” Eleanor said casually; Bryce’s neck almost snapped with his double take.

“You were in my room?” He asked incredulously. Eleanor raised a singular brow.

“Unfortunately I wasn’t able to take a bath afterwards.”

“ _You_ took off my armor?”

“If it’s any consolation, you weren’t very reluctant.”

“I was... I was _exhausted_!” Bryce was genuinely affronted, and Eleanor was confused.

“Should I have left you, exhausted, in your armor?”

“ **YES!** ” Bryce roared. “Who gave you the right? Or the permission?!” Eleanor was taken aback.

“I didn’t realize this was a big issue, Cousland.”

“No, _of course_ you wouldn’t. You’ve a tendency to be quite narrow minded.” Bryce ran a panicked hand through his hair. He was pacing her quarters like a caged bear.

 

Eleanor was so terribly confused until she remembered his confession: _“I... Am not fond of losing control.”_ Taking off his armor was leaving him vulnerable; it was stripping him of choice and control. She looked at him with new eyes.

“I’m sorry.” Eleanor said.

“You should be.” Bryce said, his tone curt and cutting. “ _Never_ do that again. To any soldier.”

“Yes.” Eleanor agreed, “I won’t.”

“Thank you.” The cloud over the room dissipated a fraction, but Eleanor was now infinitely more aware of his presence. Bryce let silence reign for a few more moments before he decided to have mercy on them both.

 

“There were Orlesian missives in the camp. Unfortunately I cannot read them.”

“I may be able to. Where are they?” Bryce looked at her with a grim smile; he had tucked them in his boots - thankfully she had not checked them when she had taken them off of him. He handed them to her. She took them wordlessly and scattered them over her large desk so that they could both pore over them.

To Bryce, the lettering meant absolutely shit. Sure, he saw ‘Ferelden’ and ‘Maric’ and ‘Fearchar’... Fearchar? Bryce handed the paper over to Eleanor. Her eyes scanned it quickly.

  
“Oh no.” Eleanor said, her eyes darting up to Bryce. “Oh no, Bryce.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not a fan of having couples fight and have it drag on and on through chapters. Bryce and Eleanor are adults who come to term with their mistakes and own up to them. Right now, they ARE going back and forth, learning each others' boundaries and understanding one another in a way nobody else does. They quite obviously like each other, but neither are in a place to settle down.


	12. Orlesian Missives

**Orlesian Missive Addressed to Commander Sebastien Roville (1)**

_Commander Sebastien,_

_It is paramount that you make your way to the location indicated below. Your encampment along the coast of the mainland and Aldenon’s Island will allow Us to conduct an ambush on approaching Ferelden ships. You are not to engage with Maric’s naval forces at any cost. Your camp is meant to be a hub for the ships in Our fleet; you will be funneled supplies through the Narrows in order to facilitate the upkeep of Our ships._

_You will hold this position until further notice._

_His Imperial Majesty  
Emperor Florian _

 

**Orlesian Missive Addressed to Commander Sebastien Roville (2)**

_Commander Sebastien,_

_We are pleased to hear of your eagerness to fulfill Our requests. You will soon be relieved of your duty. Commander Simon de Sauve is tasked with taking up your cause. You will hand over all control to him._

_We will be in further correspondence once Bann Fearchar’s forces are decimated_

_His Imperial Majesty  
Emperor Florian _

 

**Orlesian Missive Addressed to Commander Simon de Sauve  
**

_Commander de Sauve, we entrusted this camp to you as we waited for the charge of Ferelden’s naval forces. However, changing circumstances have led us to believe that a more direct approach is needed to overcome Maric’s army. The Storm Giant’s ships have formed a blockade further east of the Planasene Pass._

_Our larger ships will engage the fleet head on. Previous analysis of Fearchar’s battle tactics show that he leads his ship into the fray first; your small regiment will pass through the Narrows and cut off Fearchar’s ship from the rest of his forces. Our ships will lay waste to the mascot of Ferelden’s naval forces.  
_

_At all cost, Fearchar must be captured. He would make a worthy hostage. If pressed, kill him._

_His Imperial Majesty  
Emperor Florian _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Military missives in which everyone's plans are completely laid bare for the sake of exposition! WOOHOO!


	13. Blue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Bryce tries to help.

Eleanor worked wordlessly to reroute the Mistral to their original station at the front of the Ferelden charge. Bryce could tell that she worried for her father. No matter how larger than life Fearchar was, he was still her father. Bryce could understand worrying for a legend.

It had taken them only half a day to navigate the narrows to decimate the Orlesian camp. Though Eleanor had taken them out of the Narrows while Bryce slept, they still had to rejoin the rest of the fleet. Now, however, they didn’t have the wind or current to help them. It would take them at least another six hours to reach the first charge.

The sailors worked quietly. Bryce trained the soldiers more harshly. The entire ship was high-strung, and the tense atmosphere did nothing for their moods. They all ate quietly. Even Simmons, the life of the party, was silent.

By noon, Eleanor wanted to retire to the captain’s cabin. Her hands had begun to cramp from holding the steering wheel with such force. Spinning it for the quick and sharp turns that the Narrows warranted had been difficult, especially against the current. She could easily relinquish the wheel to Simmons or Duke. But she needed to do something, to have purpose, to distract herself.

 

“What is it?” Eleanor asked sharply when Bryce approached the wheel. He took it well. His face was still a bruised mess, but Eleanor was surprised at how quickly he was healing.

“Get some rest, El.” He spoke so softly, so gently, that Eleanor was even more frustrated. How could she take out her worries on him when he was being so lovely to her?

“Never you mind.” She said curtly, concentrating on steering.

His hand went to the small of her back in a gentle, supportive touch. He stepped closer. Was it bad of her heart to race with everything that was happening right now? Was it bad of her to rejoice in his scent and feel at peace with his warmth so close?

“El,” he said, and it was almost enough to unwind her completely and have her throw her arms around him, bury her face into his neck, and cry. Almost.

Her grip on the wheel tightened.

“Go away, Cousland.” she snapped. Immediately he removed his hand. He nodded sheepishly.

“Will you help me? I have never boarded a ship. I need to understand what are the best ways to do so with the men that I have.” Bryce said.

“You’ve never -- what?” Eleanor asked, “Are you being serious?”

“Quite serious.” Bryce said, ashamed, “I didn’t grow up on the sea.”

“Of course. I’m sorry.” Eleanor said, “I don’t think I’d be proficient at leading a large, organized charge on land, either. I will help.” He nodded.

 

Eleanor indicated Duke to take over her position at the steering wheel. It was only when she entered her cabin with Bryce in tow did she realize that he had managed to make her let go of the wheel.

She looked at him. He seemed... Calm, quiet, serene. Like the still waters of a pond during a sunny day. Looking into his eyes, she felt as though she could reach out and touch those calm waters, and maybe, just maybe, she would be able to feel the same. It was strange how the blue in his eyes reminded her of so many things: the cloudless skies she loved to sail beneath, the clear water seas she dreamt of, the field of morning glories that grew behind the home she shared with her father.

 

Her father.

 

She had forgotten. For only a moment, but she had forgotten. She looked at Bryce with anger. He had made her forget that her own blood was in danger. Bryce seemed to sense her sudden change of mood.

“Will you help me? Do you have a drawing of the ship that we can use as an example?” He asked softly. His blue eyes were the same as they were before, but he had stepped closer and Eleanor’s illusion of serenity broke. His proximity charged her blood with something new and frightening.

“Get out.” She bit out, terrified. Terrified of feeling this way, with him, right now. Terrified that she would say something she shouldn’t, reveal any emotion, show weakness. Terrified that she might embarrass herself in front of a man that she had grown to... To?

“El,” Bryce said, stepping forward, his hands reaching for her shoulders, as though to steady her and make her look into his eyes. But she had had enough of his eyes and all that she saw in them.

“Get out.” she said again, and this time Bryce dropped his hands, stepped back, and nodded.

“I’m sorry.” He said, turning to leave.

 

It felt as though centuries passed before she finally let out a quiet: “Wait.”

He turned. “I’ll help.” She said simply, reaching into her desk to find some blueprints of the Mistral.” He nodded, said nothing, and approached her desk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If Bryce wasn't around, I think Eleanor would have dealt with the potential danger to her father fairly well. It's just that Bryce makes her feel comfortable and safe, so much so that being vulnerable with him is something she wants to be. But she sees that as a sign of weakness within herself, rather than realizing it's a sign of how important he is to her already.


	14. Where There is Nothing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Bryce makes a promise.

"There's nothing here." Eleanor said as she steered the _Mistral_ to where the Ferelden fleet should be waiting for further orders from the King.

"Have they withdrawn? Or charged perhaps?" Bryce asked, pulling out a spyglass and scanning the empty horizons for any sign of life.

"Would they not have sent messenger crows, in that case?" Eleanor asked, her hand reaching for her own spyglass. Bryce simply put his in her hand.

"Our own crows have not returned." Bryce said, "A fleet doesn't simply disappear." He raked a hand through his hair in frustration.

 

"Man overboard!" Simmons shouted, and the crew rushed to save the boy bobbing in the waters, a plank of wood his only support. Eleanor and Bryce shared a worried glance before joining their men at the ship's side. They managed to pull the soaking wet rat onto the Mistral. The boy sputtered water but made no other move or sound.

"Is he dead?" asked Eleanor.

"Thankfully not." Bryce responded, "He'll have some answers for our questions, I hope." To the crew he said: "Fetch some soup for the boy - and let's try to make him as comfortable as we can until he wakes up."

As the crew busied themselves, Eleanor pulled Bryce aside.

 

"What exactly are we going to do?" she asked him, unconsciously placing her hand at the crook of his elbow. He reciprocated the touch by supporting her arm.

"Wait until he wakes up. See if he has any answers for us. If not, we return to Denerim. King Maric should be informed immediately. Who knows, we may meet the rest of the fleet the closer we get to Denerim."

"We can't simply sit here like ducks and do nothing." Eleanor said, "Something is wrong with the atmosphere here. Do you sense it?" Bryce thought for a moment.

"Can't say I do. Smells like the ocean. Is that what you mean?" Bryce asked with a smile. She rolled her eyes.

"You know that it's not." She looked around, her eyes scanning the area around them. "There!" she shouted, pointing to something in the distance. "Did you see that glittering?"

"No... El, are you alright?" Bryce asked, pulling her back to him and seeking out her eyes.

"I - yes, Bryce. Thank you." Eleanor said, allowing herself to bask in the concern in his eyes. "But there is something truly wrong here." Bryce nodded.

"I trust your judgement. What would you like to do?"

"This may sound absolutely imbecilic to you." Eleanor said, biting her lips as she looked around. "But I'm going to move the ship towards that glint. You see there? There's a shimmer in the air. Like a mirror or something else entirely."

"What would you like me to do?" Bryce asked.

"Nothing for now... Except perhaps having the crew getting ready for a battle." Bryce nodded.

"That, I can do." He moved away from her after giving her arm a gentle squeeze. Their eyes met for a moment, ocean and sky meeting in a calm isolated from the rest of the world. 

 

Eleanor's intuition that something was incredibly wrong continued to grow. As she clutched the wheel, she could see the glimmering of the air just beyond them shift and become more apparent. She was not a fool, she knew that perhaps tension and stress had conjured these onto the otherwise undisturbed sea. But she knew better than to question her gut. In war, not trusting your instincts could cost you more than your life. She shouted to Bryce as the Mistral's prow pierced what appeared to be a veil in the air. He came to her instantly.

"What in the world..." Bryce mumbled.

"It's magic! It has to be." Eleanor said, her grip tightening on the wheel. With a force that she did not expect, the wheel began rotating out of control. "Bryce!" She said in a panic, and immediately his hands were on the wheel, but even their combined efforts could not control it. They were forced to let go as the speed increased.

"Dear Maker," Bryce said just as the splintering of wood echoed aboard. The wheel cracked and fell to the ground with a heavy _**thud**_. A vortex of wind began buffeting the sails, ripping some entirely. "The ship!" Eleanor shouted, the crew was quick to react, tightening cords and loosening others. Bryce could not make sense of the chaos.

A shout from Victor cut through the mayhem: "The boy is up!" Bryce and Eleanor looked at one another.

"You go. There is not much you can do for the ship. I'll see to her." Eleanor said, giving his shoulder a squeeze as she too hurried towards a mast. She was shouting orders to the rest of the crew, her words carried off by the winds that howled with renewed intensity. Bryce turned to do as she had bade him. He joined the boy in the captain's cabin. The moment he entered, he knew that there was something wrong. Bryce now had no doubt that the boy was implicated, likely in a nefarious way, to the events. He could not adequately explain what made him react so viscerally, but he knew better than to question it.

 

The boy was of small build, his dark hair wet and hanging over him like a used mop.

"What is your name, boy?" Bryce asked. Victor shook his head.

"We've tried that, Commander. He won't respond to anything."

"Indeed?" Bryce asked, stepping closer and crouching to get a better look at the boy. In his small slender hands tipped with blackened fingernails he held a wooden bowl full with what Bryce knew to be a healing broth. The spoon in the broth moved a fraction as the boy's fingers reached for it. Bryce's fears were confirmed: the boy was a mage. Eleanor was right; magic was here and it was not here for a friendly neighborhood visit.

"I shall ask again." Bryce said, a steel grip going to the boy's chin, "What is your name, mage?"

"I am no mage, ser."

"And I'm not wearing flowery knickers." Bryce said roughly, "Speak the truth boy."

"You're wearing flowery knickers?" he asked incredulously.

"Wouldn't you like to know. Answer the question."

"Yes, I'd like to know whether you're wearing flowery knickers." The boy answered.

"Throw him back overboard." Bryce said to Victor as he got up and dusted his knees.

 

"And risk the death of Fearchar?" the boy said with a palpable smugness. Bryce's eyes turned icy as his brows lowered.

"Shut the door on your way out, Victor." Bryce said, drawing up a chair to sit across the mage. His features began to deform and falter. Victor complied and closed the door behind him before the boy's facade broke completely. In the place where a dark haired youth had sat, there was a gaunt looking fellow who had clearly been deprived of sunlight for quite a while. 

"Speak, then." Bryce said, his legs crossed with his hands stiffly upon his thighs. He was always ready to smash heads together, but now his fingers were positively itching for it.

"Fearchar is aboard our Orlesian galleon." The man said.

"Well yes, I figured that." Bryce snapped, "Why exactly are _you_ here?"

"Our captain would like to sweeten the pot, so to speak."

"And he plans to do that by..."

"Capturing Commander Bryce Cousland, heir to the Teyrnir of Highever."

"Fascinating. How exactly do you plan on doing that... Oh where are my manners, I can't keep calling you 'wet rat' in my mind. Enlighten me mage, what's your name?"

"Jory." he said, "Now -"

"Unexpected." Bryce interrupted,  "I was going more for a Sybil, to tell you the truth." Jory ignored him.

"You will leave the ship in a dingy, sail to the galleon a short way from here, and submit to your capture." Jory said simply.

"Right, and what makes you think I'll do that?"

"It will be an exchange. Fearchar for Cousland. Pirate for Commander. Young for ol-"

"Yes, I get the picture, thanks." Bryce said, leaning back with a sigh. "And what if, hypothetically, I tell you to go shove your own foot up your ass, what happens then?"

"Fearchar dies." Bryce rolled his eyes.

"Hardly original. What happens to you then?" he asked, and then with a gleeful gasp: "Why, Jory! Don't tell me you're the weakest link. Is that why they sent you? Couldn't care less whether you lived or died? Shame. I'm starting to like the cut of your jaw."

"What will you do?" Jory asked, lifting his chin and ignoring the taunts.

"Having you killed will certainly be nice."

"I strongly discourag-"

"Of course you do, who in the bloody world would encourage their death at the hands of an infamous Commander?" Bryce smiled, "I am infamous, am I not?" When Jory didn't respond, Bryce nodded and got up from his seat.

"Right then, get comfortable!" he said, leaving the quarters with a cheer in his step.

 

His cheer faded the moment he shut the cabin door behind him. The winds had calmed and Eleanor had clearly regained control over the ship. He went looking for her.

"El," he said, pulling her aside and into the shadows behind the cabin. She looked at him with worry.

"Bryce, we -"

"Shh, love. Me first." He said softly. She paused, looking at him in confusion. "There's a mage in your cabin. I need you to kill him."

"What?"

"Mage. In your cabin. The boy was a mage in disguise." Eleanor seemed to take this information in stride.

"What does he want? Why didn't _you_ kill him?"

"I wanted to give you the satisfaction. He comes with news that your father is aboard an Orlesian galleon not far from here. I must exchange my life for your father's should I want him to live." Eleanor did not react at first. Bryce continued: "I will board the galleon myself. You will stay here and make sure the Mistral survives today." 

"Bryce," she said, a drop of panic bleeding into her voice, "My father -"

"It's alright, El."

"Don't call me that! You only call me that when you're worried or scared or -" Bryce took her face in his hands, bringing himself close to her, backing her up against the cabin wall. His lips were only a breath apart from hers. He bent his head to close the distance, but would not let either of them enjoy the taste of the other's lips. He let the promise of a kiss linger in the air as he spoke.

"I'll go. And your father will be back safely, I promise you. A Cousland keeps their word." he said, "I'm young and spry. I'll find myself out of this mess. Wait only until sundown after your father arrives, El. Afterwards you leave, do you understand? With or without me, you leave."

"No Bryce, I can't let you do that." Her hands were at his wrists, holding his palms in place on either side of her face. "I won't let you fight my battles for me."

"They want an exchange El. I won't risk the lives of my other men, and certainly not you. You have to survive today and return to Denerim. Promise me."

"Bryce, I-"

"We've been dancing around this for a while now." Bryce said, "But this might be the last chance I get. So forgive me for my impudence, El." With that, Bryce closed the distance between them and kissed her.

It was light and chaste. It left both of them breathless.

"Bye, El." Bryce said, and with that he was no longer simply _Bryce_ but Cousland the Ferelden Commander. He shouted orders to his men to gear up and prepare for battle. He had them prepare a boat for him. They lowered the dingy, and Eleanor, who had stood by wordlessly while all of the preparations were done, turned away. She would not say goodbye to him. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ay lol some foreshadowing in here


	15. Oh Captain, My Captain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Bryce wants a scar.

Bryce vowed that if he survived this he would sacrifice three goats in the name of Andraste. He would also take Leonas and Rendon out for a long night of heavy drinking, where they would undoubtedly return three sheets to the wind after making several poor life choices.

Once in the dingy Bryce’s instincts took over. He knew that the twinkling Eleanor mentioned must be the edges of the mirage that the Orlesian mages had created. All he would need to do is row himself to that edge and board whatever ship waited for him. Unfortunately he hadn’t asked Jeb or Jabberwock or whatever his name had been what the ship looked like, so he would be left to his own devices in that regard. He wondered briefly if Eleanor would kill the mage.

When at last Bryce’s boat pierced the mirage and emerged through the mist, he spotted one very large galleon surrounded by smaller vessels similar to the Mistral. He rowed towards the Galleon. It was highly unlikely that both Fearchar and Bryce would both escape this ordeal unharmed. Bryce was willing to sacrifice an eye, some fingers, and he wouldn’t complain if he received one of those shockingly attractive facial scars that went down one from brow to cheek. Still, he would need to devise some sort of plan to make sure that Fearchar would survive unscathed. Bryce knew that the Orlesians had no intention of relinquishing Fearchar. “Sweeten the pot,” please. Bryce could hardly be worth one fifth of Fearchar’s weight in gold. It was likely all a stupid ruse to weaken the Mistral before taking over the ship, which was vital in Ferelden’s naval forces.

 

Oh well.

The Orlesians lifted his dingy out of the water when he reached the galleon. They unceremoniously dumped him on the boat, and then tossed the dingy back into the water. An archer shot a flaming arrow at it and there went one of his escape plans. Bryce sighed. That left him with nothing but his dazzling smile and ample charm. Things were most certainly not looking up.

 

“Ah, Commander Bryce Cousland.” said a heavily plumed and armored figure sporting an ornate silver mask. Bryce was not impressed; he ate this man’s poultry kin on a near daily basis.

“Ah, ambiguous Orlesian man.” Bryce said, copying the tone and pose of the figure.

“Captain Jean Reyes Gavin-Sauve de Val Chevin.” Jean Reyes said.

“My condolences.”

“For what?”

“For that godawful name. Someone was clearly the last pick during school sports.”

“As snide as the reports say.” Jean Reyes said. With a nod of his head, several men came to incapacitate Bryce.

“Words hurt, Jean.”

“It’s Jean.”

“That’s what I said.”

“Non, you said Jeen.” Jean said, “It’s Jahn. The ‘j’ is like in your Ferelden word... I don’t know of any. The ‘n’ is near silent.”

“Fascinating. Now is this really necessary, Jahn?” Bryce asked, rolling his eyes at the four guards who all believed it necessary to put their hands on Bryce. “Hardly hospitable, especially given that I’ve come to turn myself in.”

 "I am surprised you would."

“Well of course, dear old Jory came for a personal visit.”

“It’s Jory.” Jean said, “The J is hard, like job.”

“Well you Orlesians really need to make up your damned mind.”

“Take him to the cells.” Jean said, “You will await interrogation.”

“Now that’s definitely not necessary!” Bryce called as they dragged him away, “I’ll tell you everything you need to know! Just please don’t hurt me, or give me a scar from brow to cheek! That would be terrible and not the least bit handsome!”

 

When they shoved him into a damp cell with rusty bars, he relaxed. Ah, he hadn’t been held in a cell in so long. He wondered if this one would have a straw bed - always exciting! Unfortunately it was too dark to see anything.

“Is that you, Bryce Cousland?”

“Were you expecting another Cousland? My father’s a bit preoccupied these days, but I could send a message.”

“Enough lip, boy. It’s me, Fearchar.”

“Well of course it’s you, Fearchar. Who else am I here to save?”

“Did I not say enough lip?” Fearchar asked with a sigh.

“My therapist tells me it’s a defense mechanism. Sorry.”

“Your what?”

“My therapist. Great fellow - you should get one. They help you come to terms with your character and personal issues.”

“Well, is your rapist going to help you with _this_ personal issue?”

“Therapist. Not rapist, that’s something else entirely.” Bryce chirped.

“You can drive a saint to madness.”

 

“That’s the hope. Where are you exactly?” Bryce asked.

“Cell across from you and to the right.”

“How can you tell that? It’s pitch black in here!”

“You get used to it. Tell me, what news is there?”

“Do you want the good news or the --”

“Shut up and tell me both.”

“That’s paradoxical, but alright. The Mistral is out there waiting for your recovery. Your daughter is safely aboard bossing her sailors about. We have no reinforcements and are entirely alone.”

“What do you mean? What happened to the ships that were with me?” Fearchar asked.

“What? We thought they were taken, just as your ship was!”

“My ship, taken? Hardly. I was tricked by some filthy shapeshifter. Posed as my daughter and invited me aboard the Mistral to talk of some battle plans. How was I to know it was all a mirage?”

“Damn, these Orlesians must have quite a few mages aboard if they’re using this much magic.”

“Aye, or one or two blood mages.”

 

They sat in silence. Bryce’s mind was working quickly.

“Are you injured?”

“Only my pride. Yourself?”

“My face is a mess.”

“It wasn’t anything to look at to begin with.”

“That’s not what your daughter said.”

“What?”

“What.”

 

Bryce was saved when Captain Jean Reyes something something walked in.

“Have you settled in?” he asked, obviously not caring either way.

“Yes! The luxury of it all - why, you even have a straw bed!” Bryce exclaimed. Neither Fearchar nor Jean could tell whether he was being serious.

“I’m pleased you’re content with the accomodations. You know your comfort is my top priority.” Jean said, an odd cadence to his voice. Bryce could see the gleam of his green eyes pierce the darkness. Jean was no longer wearing his mask.

“Well then, what would you like me to answer?”

“Answer...?” Jean asked, tilting his head to the side. “Nothing at present. We will take you to Val Royeux. Goodbye.”

“Goodbye, Jeen.”

Without comment, Jean and his goons left.

 

“Odd.” Fearchar said. Bryce was ecstatic.

“Not odd! Perfect! The man’s been possessed!”

“What?” Fearchar asked incredulously, “How can you know?”

“Several things. One, his eyes were glowing green. Two, he was wearing no mask - you know the Orlesians are never seen without their masks. C, he didn’t correct me when I called him Jeen. D, he has a distinctly non-Orlesian accent. Subtle but easy enough to notice if you’re listening for it. And five, ol’ Jean was supposed to interrogate me. Seems he forgot all about that in the ten minutes it took for him to get down here. He doesn’t strike me as the forgetful.”

“Clever. Now how are we going to use this to our advantage? And why would this happen now?”

“Blood mages, as you said. One of them must have made a poorly worded deal and bam, the Demon’s took over. I wager the entire Orlesian forces aboard are either decimated or demons.”

 

“Fantastic. Now we have a demon army to contend with.” Fearchar said.

“Oh yes, but we have one less worry now.”

“And what’s that?”

“We don’t need any survivors.”


End file.
